Photogenic

Before I get back to talking All Things Pregnancy, please take a moment to laugh at this picture of my son:

Oh, is that not pitiful enough? Well, how about this one, then?

Yes, that's my boy. Sent to daycare in a Ramones shirt and a ripped pair of jeans, because his clueless parents didn't know it was PICTURE DAY; clearly living a Dickensian existence, bereft of love and affection and healthful meals. My god, will you look at those liquid, nearly tear-filled eyes? The solemn, cheerless expression? Perhaps he's not sending a message about the quality of his care at home after all, perhaps the photographer was hovering just out of frame with a large metal bat (you know: beat on the brat, beat on the brat, beat on the brat with a baseball bat oh yah, oh yah).

We've had some good Picture Day results in the past, but these? Definitely not going in the holiday card.

The news

I hope you don't mind if the next few blog entries around here are focused on pregnancy, because at the moment, and presumably for the next seven months or so, I've got pregnancy on the brain. And elsewhere in the body. Which is to say Riley is going to have a brother or sister and I'm seven weeks pregnant and I can't stand not talking about it ANY MORE.

Common wisdom dictates that you wait a while before spilling your early-pregnancy news all over the place, but I figure if anything godforbid goes wrong with this pregnancy, I would want to talk about that, too. And it's been getting increasingly difficult to keep it a secret, mostly because I've been feeling so lousy with morning ("morning"! Ha. HA, I SAY) sickness I feel like there should be a giant blinking sign on me somewhere: "HELP. AM POISONED WITH CHILD. SEND PEPPERMINT MILKSHAKES".

We're awfully damn thrilled, even if I do feel like something the cat horked up.

Let the pregnancy talk begin, by god! First topic: if you have more than one child, did you notice that your body started to change more quickly than the first time around? Because I'm not sure what other possible explanation there could be for my tightening waistband. Surely milkshakes cannot contribute to such a phenomenon.

All in a day's work

Odious Tasks I Personally Do Not Care For One Bit That My Son Makes 295857291045 Times Worse By Flipping the HELL OUT While I Am Doing Them:

• Applying sunscreen

• Wiping poop from the scrotal area

• De-boogering a slimy little toddler snout

• Wiping macaroni and cheese residue off a cheesy little toddler mouth

• Smearing on diaper rash cream

On the other hand . . .

Everyday Tasks Made Completely Enjoyable by the Joyous, Giddy Reaction of a Very Small Boy:

• Putting on shoes

• Zipping up jackets

• Pouring milk into a cup ("MO MILK! OKAY!")

• Turning on Blue's Clues

• Feeding the dog ("Should we feed the dog?" "OKAY!")

• Turning on, or off, any light-switch in the house

• Having a dental checkup

Bragging rights

The other day I had an acquaintance tell me all about how her friend's child, who is as she pointed out exactly as old as Riley, can speak in complete sentences and knows all kinds of words and is basically some kind of pint-sized linguistics genius, and it's all because the kid's parents never—never EVER!—spoke a single word of baby talk in her presence.

I performed the requisite Appreciative Murmuring ("Is that so . . . you don't say . . . ") but what I really should have said was, "Aw, who needs to drink a tall cold glass of STFU? Is it you? Is it YOU? Yes it IS!"

Suddenly: monkeys

It began with Curious George, the cute (yet possibly bad-influence-filled? What with the constant nosy shenanigans and, well, monkey business and all?) cartoon on PBS I started recording for Riley, then we started making monkey sounds during "Old McDonald" (with a oooh-oooh here, and a oooh-ooh there . . .), then I foolishly bought him a book called "Eight Silly Monkeys". Now we can officially add monkeys to the list of Things Riley Loves Beyond All Reason, which includes:

• MOON! MOOOOOOOON! (Note: there is a drawing of a crescent moon on the Port-a-Potty in our front lawn [we have a remodel in progress, there's not always an outdoor toilet] and Riley goes into fits of glee each and every time he sees it)

• Peeker! (Stereo speaker)

• Trucks, all varieties thereof

• Baby rocks (small rocks = baby rocks)

• Choo choo trains

• The numbers 2 and 8, and the letters B and E

Monkeys are nearly always drawn in an adorable manner in children's books, bearing little resemblance to, say, an adult baboon in full estrus. Or a gorilla thoughtfully gnawing on a hunk of feces, which I once observed at the zoo years ago and unfortunately have been unable to purge the memory since (it was eating it just like a burrito, my god). I don't particularly care for monkeys, myself, unless we're talking about those tiny marmoset things, but I can see the appeal of the children's version—round baby-like heads, bendy little bodies. Actually, slap a Stage 4 Cruiser on George and he would pretty much look just like Riley.

So! What are your kids obsessing over? Planes, trains, automobiles? Dolls and toy kitchens? Or poo-eating simians?

Greatness

I was picking Riley up from daycare the other day and before he saw me, I stood nearby and watched the room for a couple minutes. A teacher was reading a book to the children, who were uniformly spread out in a semi circle on the floor, quietly listening—except for Riley, that is. He was standing, wearing a plastic lid on his head like a hat, and he was loudly pointing out the ducks in the book ("Quack quack! Quack!"). When he saw me he careened directly into my legs, joyously yelling "MOMMY!" and immediately told me all about the hat situation ("Riwwy. Hat.") before flapping a hand at the class and blaring "BYE BYE!".

My son is loud. He is full of energy and he's impatient as hell and he's rarely content to sit back and observe, he wants to get in the middle of things and talk about them, preferably at the top of his lungs. He churns along at top speed, he devours life in great messy gulps; he's a splashy Pollock, an espresso-fueled symphony.

Earlier tonight I was talking with a business acquaintance who asked a few polite questions about my son, and I found myself making these stupid jokes about what a handful he can be, and it was a good thing he was so cute, har har har, and I wish I hadn't felt some kind of silly pressure to downplay what a phenomenal, amazing kid Riley is for the sake of making small talk. Next time, I'm just going to say this: "He's great." Because he is. He's a colossal pain-in-the-ass-tastic, miraculous, horrifying, heart-shockingly beautiful fireworks display of toddler madness. In other words, he's great.

Rah ruff ooh

JB taught Riley to say "I love you Mommy". It comes out a garbled alphabet soup of Toddlerese, and it kind of reminds me of that old Little Caesar's commercial with the German shepherd who could bark "Ar ruff ooh!", in that it's both hard to understand and surely not spoken with purpose and intent, but --

Goddamn if it isn't the sweetest thing my ears have ever heard.

No, YOU chill out

My child is the most impatient creature on the face of this earth. I certainly hope this is a stage because otherwise he's in for an incredibly frustrating existence as he learns that not only do parents take more than .0001 seconds to pour the milk, but traffic lights sometimes stay red for MINUTES ON END! Water does not boil INSTANTLY! The DMV will suck YEARS FROM YOUR LIFE!

He yells at the top of his toddler-sized lungs over the smallest delay, and he reacts to any impediment—a toy pushed partially under the TV stand, for instance—with what I have come to think of as the Worst Sound in the World, an irritated "Eh, eh, eh, eh, EHHHHH" noise that definitively crosses the line from "fussing" to "whining".

What is it about whining that is so annoying to listen to? It's like a physical thing, the whining, that trepans into your skull and makes you daydream about the golden days of yore, when nary a rod was spared in the effort to ensure children were seen, not heard.

We try and encourage him to solve his own easily-solvable problems ("Hey, how about reaching under the TV stand, Riley? Jeez, you're never going to qualify for MENSA at this rate.") but the whining is like aural Kryptonite. "RILEY," I heard JB bark this morning as Riley was issuing forth a particularly obnoxious foghorn-level complaint about the amount of time the toaster was taking. "SERIOUSLY. The mouth, it needs to be QUIET."

By the way, it never works to tell a toddler to be quiet. Never. Ever. In fact 9 out of 10 times you'll get the exact opposite effect of what you were aiming for.

So like with most parenting challenges, we've turned to humor to get us through. We taught Riley to say, "Chill out". "You need to CHILL. OUT," one of us will say, when Riley starts doing his dying-goat impression because the puzzle piece is turned slightly and won't fit in its hole.

"CHIW. OUT," he repeats, delighted. Most of the time he forgets what he was so pissed about. "CHIW OUT. RIWWY CHIW. OUT."

It's both funny and cute, and almost makes us forgive him for having the patience of a fruit fly. (ALMOST.)

Father's Day

He sweeps Riley up in strong arms and tosses him squealing into the air. They bare their teeth at each other, grinning a mirrored expression of fierce joy. Riley runs into his dad's legs with total abandon, his face a bright flower.

Later when there's late-night crying, he puts a gentle hand on Riley's downy, spiky head and murmurs that it's okay, that he will always protect Riley and there's nothing to worry about. Shhh, he says, in our sleepy boy's ear. Shhh, now. Riley curls his body around his daddy's lap, limp with sweet tired comfort.

He laughs in true delight at our son's antics, and he asks me if I saw that, did I see how Riley kicked the ball just now? He bets Riley will be a soccer player.

He fusses over every bump and bruise, every rash and runny nose.

"Nutsh," says Riley when his dad is changing his diaper. "That's right," I hear his father telling him with pride. "It's time to powder your nuts."

Riley puts his tiny feet into his father's big clunky shoes and takes halting steps, one shoe dragging after another. He stumbles but refuses to take them off. "Daddy shoe," he explains.

JB creates so much love and laughter in our little family. He is loudness and dirty shoes and giant spoonfuls at dinner, and he is the quiet trust at the end of the day. He is protection and planning, and bath-time splutterings and pajamas put on backwards.

My boy thinks his father hung the stars and the moon in the sky. I think, maybe so—he's the reason they shine so very brightly for me, too.

Tip jar

Things I have learned since becoming a parent, which may or may not be useful to others:

• If you rub some baby oil on the outside of a bandaid, it will lift right off.

• Blue's Clues (with STEVE, not the imposter JOE) is a surprisingly non-annoying, charming little show. Forget Elmo.

• The "Swaddlers" brand of diapers is excellent for newborns.

• The only reliable cure for diaper rash I have found is the combination of 1 layer of Neosporin, topped by 1 thick layer of your cream of choice.

• To thread a baby's noodley arms into their sleeves, shove your hand in the sleeve from the outside and cover their fingers (so their flailing little thumbs don't break off) before pulling the hand and arm back through.

• You know that removable lid that attaches to the highchair tray? Just get rid of it now, because your child will spend every meal yanking it off, waving it around, and possibly bashing you over the head with it.

• If a car ride turns ugly from boredom, try randomly lowering and raising the backseat windows (as long as you can operate the windows from the driver's seat, of course). Your child will be mildly freaked out, but at least he'll stop howling.

• Try and outsource the nail-clipping right from the get-go. That is a great job for Daddy to have.

• Buy a video monitor. It's endlessly fascinating to see what your kid is doing in his bed, and if you're really lucky, you can watch the activity in the space station too.

Your turn!